24 Hours
by Joodiff
Summary: Set after S5 "Straw Dog". Things don't go well for Boyd when he investigates a lock-up implicated in criminal activity, and it's Grace who deals with the aftermath. T for language. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** _Dunno if this should have a tissue warning  
><em>_or not... __I'd say not, but YMMV. :) _

* * *

><p><strong>24 Hours<strong>

by Joodiff

* * *

><p>They leave Martin Locke's office together and walk down the wide, bland corridor towards the lifts. Around them, all the usual activity associated with late afternoon in a modern city office ebbs and flows. No-one pays them any particular attention, which doesn't surprise Grace at all. Probably, anyone glancing at them will assume they are simply visiting clients – mistaking them for a successful businessman and his PA, perhaps – and that will be good for Locke, who probably won't want to explain to anyone why he has just been visited by two members of the Metropolitan Police's Cold Case Unit.<p>

"So what do you think?" Boyd asks her as they approach the lift doors.

Grace spares him a quick glance, says, "I think he's telling the truth."

"Yeah," Boyd agrees, sounding uncharacteristically weary. "So do I, Grace. So do I."

"Maybe Stella and Spence are having better luck with Franklin," Grace offers. If she thinks it will brighten her companion's dark mood, she's wrong. Peter Boyd is not having a good day; even the set of his shoulders is decidedly gloomy. Grace watches in amused silence as he takes some of his frustration out on the call buttons for the lifts.

"Quicker to take the bloody stairs at this rate," he grumbles impatiently.

Grace looks at her watch, and then suggests, "Why don't we go back to the office, check on Felix and then I'll buy you dinner. I won't even try to stop you going straight back to work afterwards."

The offer seems to cheer him a little and he finally manages a tired grin. "Sounds like a plan."

There's a discreet chime and the lift doors nearest Grace slide smoothly open revealing an empty compartment which she accepts as a minor blessing – Boyd is always tetchy in confined spaces, and more so if he is forced to share those spaces with strangers. He follows her into the lift and waits for her to press the button for the ground floor. They stand next to each other, just an inch or two apart, and as the doors slide closed again, Grace can see the blurry reflection of two figures in their smooth metal surface. The male figure is tall, and broad through chest and shoulders, a complete contrast to the much smaller, slighter female figure next to it. The features are indistinct, but her mind automatically fills in the details for itself.

The lift starts to descend, the display on the control panel changing from eight to seven, to six.

"French or Italian?" Grace asks, knowing from experience that it doesn't matter – Boyd has a ferocious appetite and will summarily demolish either in very short order. Mischievously, she adds, "Or there's always that new sushi place Stella was talking about."

Boyd makes a derisive noise. "On principle, I refuse to eat anything that used to walk, fly or swim unless it's cooked."

"By cooked, you actually mean burnt to a crisp, don't you?"

"If it's burnt, at least I know it's dead."

The lift comes to a smooth halt, and Grace chuckles as she precedes him out into the lobby. "You're a philistine, Boyd."

Whatever he's about to say in reply is lost as his phone starts to ring. She waits patiently, listening to his side of the conversation – monosyllabic at best – until he ends the call and looks at her with a shrug. "No rest for the wicked. According to Franklin, Heath used to rent a lock-up in Rotherhithe."

Grace matches his shrug. "So we'll take a look and then have dinner."

-oOo-

"Lovely," Boyd says dryly as he stops the car on the broken asphalt that runs between the twin rows of garages. Grace knows exactly what he means. It's already dark, there's a lot of rubbish blowing around in the stiff autumn breeze, every possible surface is grimy and scarred by graffiti and the air of poverty and neglect is palpable. Urban decay at its most stereotypical. One of the two street lights covering the area is dark, apparently smashed by a projectile, the other is flickering fitfully. The only thing missing from the scene is a loitering group of feral-looking teenagers.

She says, "Not the sort of venue I had in mind for the evening."

"Never let it be said that I don't take you to some interesting places, Grace."

"Are we really going to get out of the car?"

"No," he replies easily. "I'm going to get out of the car. You're going to stay here."

Normally, she'd argue. Or at least bridle at his high-handedness. But it's cold and it's dark, and any enthusiasm for the task in hand she might have had has already dwindled away. Grace folds her arms across her chest. "Don't be long."

Boyd shoots her a sideways look. "That's it? You're not going to argue?"

"No."

"You're not going to tag along in case I need you to hold my hand?"

"No."

A little sardonic, he says, "I see."

"Just get on with it, Boyd. There's a nice bottle of wine in the King's Road calling me."

He leans past her, close enough for her to catch the subtle, expensive scent of designer cologne, and flips open the glovebox. Extracting a solid, slim aluminium torch from the clutter within, he says, "If I'm not back in ten minutes, call the cavalry."

"You're such a drama queen," Grace tells him with a deliberate sigh. Boyd's response is merely a quick grin. A moment later he's out of the car and walking away.

-oOo-

He's been a police officer for far too long not to be a little cautious as he negotiates the dark, narrow path that leads from the garages to the buildings beyond, but there's no indication of any sign of life, nothing to suggest he's not completely alone. Really, he shouldn't be doing this. He's a DSI, a senior officer. It should be Spencer Jordan or Stella Goodman – or both – doing this. The trouble is, Peter Boyd is not the sort of man who is happy to stay quietly behind his desk in his office; not when he can be out and about getting his hands dirty. In a metaphorical sense, at least. The years may be relentlessly creeping up on him, but at heart Boyd is still every bit the same tenacious terrier of a man that he's always been; one who doesn't easily let go of anything.

Ultimately, though, as Boyd approaches the lock-up described by Spencer, it's not caution _per __se_ that saves him, but experience and preternaturally fast reflexes. A flicker of movement on the very edge of his peripheral vision, a sense that all is not as it should be. He twists sharply on instinct, simultaneously snapping his head back, and the blow meant for the back of his skull glances heavily off his shoulder. The weight of his thick winter coat helps absorb some of the crowbar's impetus, but the pain still roars through him, white hot and savage. Impulsively, despite the momentary agony, Boyd pivots on one foot, puts all his weight behind the wide arc he swings his torch in, and takes grim satisfaction from his assailant's surprised yelp of pain as the metal cylinder connects solidly with something bony. The hard impact jerks the torch from Boyd's grip, and he hears it clatter away in the darkness.

He has a momentary impression of a stocky male figure, shadowy and unrecognisable, and then the short metal bar with its curved end is scything at him again, forcing another sharp evasive manoeuvre that sends a fresh burst of pain through his injured shoulder. The crowbar hits the brickwork behind him and his attacker curses loudly, drawing back immediately for another swing. Everything is happening very fast. Boyd ducks again, but although he avoids the worst of the blow, there's a blaze of pain through his ribcage that indicates he hasn't been quite agile enough to escape totally unscathed.

Without even thinking about it, Boyd falls back on his training, sets himself square on at the attacking man, presenting the biggest, most intimidating silhouette he can, and barks aggressively, "Police! Back off!"

Against all odds, the bluff works. The man freezes, crowbar held aloft, hesitates, then bolts, heading for the path that leads back to the garages and the car. Swearing, Boyd launches after him, steadfastly ignoring the continuing pain in his shoulder and the grinding, burning ache in his ribs.

-oOo-

As soon as she sees the running man break from the dark shadows surrounding the path, Grace knows there's trouble. It's unlikely that an innocent man would suddenly run out of a dark path down which a police officer has disappeared only minutes before, particularly when the path in question leads to a premises implicated in criminal activity. There's nothing she can do. She certainly can't give chase, but her hand reaches out automatically for the car's door handle and she's just climbing out of the vehicle when Boyd comes abruptly into view. Just the fact that he's running flat out tells her everything she needs to know about the gravity of the situation.

"Boyd!" Grace shouts, pointing towards the short, shallow flight of concrete steps the other man has already ascended. His pace doesn't slacken as he glances at her, but he changes direction in response to her signal, heading for the steps at an acute angle.

"Back-up," he yells at her, and then he's on the steps and bounding away into the darkness.

The succinct instruction is more than enough. Grace is already fumbling in her coat pocket for her phone. Locating it, she presses her chosen speed dial button, presses the phone to her ear and waits impatiently as the connection is made. Spencer answers on the third ring, his voice calm. "Hi, Grace."

"We're at Heath's lock-up. I don't know what's going on, but Boyd's in pursuit and he wants back-up."

"He's on foot?"

"Heading for the Dale Estate," Grace confirms. "All I can tell you is that he's chasing a white male."

"Heath?"

"Couldn't tell."

"Okay. I'll give the local boys a shout, but we're on our way."

"Thanks, Spence."

"You okay?"

"Fine. I'm with the car."

"Stay there," Spencer instructs. "We're coming."

-oOo-

It's bloody-mindedness that stops him breaking off the chase. Sheer bloody-mindedness and a hefty surge of adrenaline. Boyd is losing ground and he knows it, but when he spots his target again any thought of giving up the pursuit disappears instantly. Injured or not, he's far too stubborn to let his assailant escape easily. He knows he's slowing though, knows that he's neither as young nor as fit as he used to be. But that doesn't matter. Not when there's a core of obstinate rage driving him on. As far as Boyd is concerned, the matter is personal – he's been attacked, and he's justifiably enraged by the indignity.

The man disappears round the corner of a low brick-built structure – some kind of storage area for the ugly blocks of 'sixties flats ahead of them, Boyd assumes. Doggedly, he keeps going. This area, at least, is reasonably well-lit, utilitarian street lamps dotted along the paths that run across the scrappy reaches of grass that form a no-man's land around the bulky, intimidating residential buildings. It surprises him a little that there's no-one else around. Then, it's too late and too dark for the smaller children to be out playing, and too early for the little knots of sullen teenagers that inevitably form in such places.

He rounds the corner of the brick building at speed and simply can't react fast enough to avoid the crowbar that sweeps at his shins. The shock and pain of the impact of metal on bone is indescribable. It makes him roar, and he falls, grazing the skin off the heels of both palms as he sprawls headlong on the harsh, gritty surface. Boyd rolls, narrowly avoiding another punishing blow from the metal bar, but he's too disorientated and in too much pain to evade the boot that crashes into his ribs, instantly draws back and ploughs straight into his stomach. He's doubling up automatically, retching and clutching at his belly as another kick takes him, this time connecting squarely with his already injured shoulder.

There's nothing Boyd can do. A fully-fledged Detective Superintendent he may very well be, but regardless, he is, in the common parlance of police and villains alike, being given a damned good kicking.

-oOo-

The shout comes to Grace on the evening breeze. Distant and indistinct but recognisable. Boyd's voice, no doubt about it. A voice she's heard every working day for several years. A voice she's heard shouting on too many other occasions not to know instantly. Help is on its way, she's fully aware of that, but nothing is going to keep her standing quietly by the car now she's heard that voice crying out. She has her own sudden surge of adrenaline, the fight or flight response triggering automatically in response to her sudden fear of what's happening out of sight. She starts to trot towards the steps, not questioning what she's doing, just responding to the unwelcome stimuli on a very primitive level.

At the top of the steps she hesitates – not sure which way to head. Something makes her go right, vaguely in the direction of the river. A little way down the path, she stops, already more breathless than she'd like. Grace is not a police officer – she's a psychologist, one who's definitely heading steadily towards retirement age. Her job description doesn't include running after her police colleagues, not does it include physical confrontations with potential suspects.

But it's Boyd out there somewhere in the shadows. Mercurial, infuriating, eccentric Boyd. He of the quick temper and the angelic, devastating smile.

Grace forces herself back into a jog. He's not just a colleague, not just the man who commands the unit she currently works for. He is her friend. For all his faults, he is her friend. Humorous, engaging and tenaciously loyal. Also irritating, argumentative and obdurate. Quite capable of a boorish disregard for those around him, equally capable of being genuinely kind and supportive.

Stopping for a moment, she shouts his name. "Boyd? Boyd!"

Nothing. No sound apart from the ever-present murmur of the city and the low rumble of distant traffic.

He's out there somewhere. Grace starts to move again.

-oOo-

Boyd hears her shouting for him. He thinks he hears her. Maybe it's just his imagination, part of the odd dreamworld he seems to inhabit. Everything hurts, but the pain is strangely muted, as if it's being filtered through layers of unreality. The cold is like that, too. He can feel it seeping into his bones, can feel that the ground underneath him is remorselessly stealing away his body heat, but that's also a distant, trivial thing that doesn't mean very much. He doesn't know that four of his ribs are broken, that his left collarbone is smashed or that his right cheekbone is fractured. He doesn't know that he's concussed and bleeding, or that he's been left for dead in the shadows.

He's conscious enough to hear the wail of a siren somewhere in the far distance, but that might also very well be a dream. He thinks – wrongly – that his nose is broken. He doesn't realise that the pain is actually from his cheekbone. He thinks he's lost a couple of teeth, but will later discover it's only a gold crown he's lost, inconsequential and easily fixed. More than anything, Boyd thinks he wants to go to sleep. He's very tired and although the erratic pain that comes and goes is troublesome, it won't stop him drifting away into temporary, comfortable oblivion. Maybe if he sleeps for just a little while, he'll feel better.

Again, the voice. "Boyd!"

Female. Worried. Edge of a regional accent. Not London, not Estuary. Not anywhere south. Grace.

He likes her. She's sharp and bright and fearless. She says what she means and she means what she says. He's never known her be remotely intimidated by his temper or his brusqueness. She gets on his nerves. Too many theories, too many long words. Treats him like a naughty schoolboy. Yeah, he likes her. A lot.

"Grace," Boyd says hoarsely, and in his head the quiet mutter is a loud, clear shout.

She'll try to mother him. She always does. But that's okay. He's feeling distinctly sorry for himself and he thinks a little mothering might go a long way to making him feel better. The night seems to be getting colder and darker, and he just wants to go to sleep.

-oOo-

The inert dark shape lying in the shadows behind the brick building is Boyd. She knows it's Boyd even before she's close enough to positively identify him. Grace just knows. Drawing closer, the sight of the long dark coat – scuffed and dirty now – and the dishevelled grey hair only confirms the fact. Something in her stomach tightens into a cold, hard knot at the sight of him. He's not moving at all and his stillness terrifies her. He's very rarely still. Even sitting at his desk he invariably fidgets. Nervous energy.

"Boyd?" Grace tries as she closes the gap between them, and even to her own ears her voice sounds thin and desperate. She doesn't expect a response – half fears he may already be dead – but her heart almost literally leaps when there's a low answering groan. Not caring about age, decorum, her clothes or the hard ground, Grace drops to her knees next to him, says again, "Boyd?"

He's a mess. Even in the shadows she can see that. He's unquestionably taken what seems to be an extraordinarily extensive beating. The bruising and the swelling are already clear, and there's blood on his face, in his hair, in his beard. But he's alive. She puts a hand on his shoulder and the contact makes him flinch and groan again, his eyelids momentarily flickering. Alive. Very definitely alive. Alive and breathing.

The sound of sirens is very loud now. Help isn't far away. Quickly, desperately, she finds her phone again, hits the redial button, whispers impatiently to herself. Spencer's voice speaks in her ear, still very calm. "Grace?"

"I'm with Boyd," she tells him rapidly. "He's in a bad way, Spence. He's been badly beaten…"

"Jesus," Spencer's voice says, followed by a more muffled, "Stella, call an ambulance. Boyd's down."

"We're on the estate, south of the main blocks. There's a brick building… you can't miss it."

"We're still a good ten minutes away – but I'll tell uniform where to find you. Suspect?"

"No idea… no sign of him… Spence…"

"Just stay put and stay calm," Spencer instructs. "It won't be long now, Grace. Is he conscious?"

She shakes her head in reflex. "Barely…"

"See if you can get him talking to you. Okay?"

"Okay. Just hurry."

"We're coming. Just a few more minutes."

-oOo-

_Leave me a-fucking-lone… Just fuck off and leave me be…_

Boyd doesn't know if he says the words or not. He most certainly thinks them. Damned woman is talking at him. She always talks at him. Far, far too many words. It drives him mad. Why can't she just say things quickly and simply?

"Peter…"

Peter? Why the fuck is she calling him that? That's not normal. Is it?

"Grace…" _…__for __God__'__s __sake, __will __you __leave __me __alone? __Everything __hurts __and __I __just __want __to __be __asleep._

She smells… good. It's a stupid thought, not a conscious one at all. But she does. She's stronger than she looks, too; she must be, because now his head seems to be in her lap, and he knows damned well he hasn't got the strength to have moved it there. So Grace must be responsible. Elementary deduction. He's not a detective for nothing. And yeah, she does smell good. A warm, floral scent. Very… suitable. Appropriate. That's the word. Is it appropriate for her to be stroking his hair? Because that's what she seems to be doing. Unnerving. Comforting. In fact, if she'd just stop talking the whole thing would be… quite pleasant. Apart from the burning agony, obviously. And the brutal chill. And the bone-breaking weariness.

_Please __stop __talking, __Grace, __I __love __you __dearly_ – what the fuck? – _but __will __you __please __shut __up, __just __for __once__…_

-oOo-

He's shaking, and Grace doesn't know if that's a good sign or a bad sign. She assumes he's in shock, but that could be good, surely? If he's in shock at least he's not dead… Felix would know. Spencer would know. Grace doesn't – no medical training required to be a psychologist. Basic first aid she knows. Not this. Not how to treat a man who's been so very badly beaten. Boyd is restless under her hands, and she strokes his hair – dense, surprisingly soft – hoping it will reassure him. He's bleeding all over her and it's breaking her heart. It's not fair. No-one deserves this. _He_ doesn't deserve this. He's intrinsically far too good a man to deserve it.

"Peter," she says again, not at all sure he can hear her. "Come on, Peter. Stay with me. You can't go to sleep."

"…off," he mumbles. Prove positive that, yes, he hears her.

Despite everything, the muttered imprecation makes her smile. Just a little. Tough as they come under the very thin veneer of easy charm and urbanity. There isn't anyone who knows him who wouldn't say he has balls. He's probably just too damned obstinate to die here in the shadows. He'll wait for the triumphant blaze of glory, the desperate last stand. The heroically stupid grand gesture.

His skin is cooling rapidly now, and when Grace clumsily checks the pulse in his neck it's far weaker than she thinks it should be. Could he actually die? Right here, right now? She doesn't believe it. Not Boyd. Not Peter Boyd who is an energetic fireball of oddities and paradoxes. She refuses to believe it. This is the man who throws things around his office in temper, the man who always bounces back however hard the knock; the one who's universally renowned as a difficult, hard-headed slave-driver. The man who gets things done whatever the cost. Intractable. Indefatigable. Unstoppable.

Voices puncture the night. She can see the beam of a torch, hear the sound of running feet. The relief hits her like a tidal wave, but she doesn't loosen her grip on Boyd. She shouts for them, the people who are coming, and she keeps shouting until they finally run into view.

-oOo-

Someone's pawing at him. Manhandling him. It hurts. And he doesn't like it. Not one little bit. Boyd forces his eyes open, does his best to focus, and he growls. It usually works. People tend to back off when he growls at them. People with sense, anyway. Who the hell is it who's mauling him around? Whoever it is will soon find that their life isn't worth living. Uniform. Uniform? What the fuck's going on?

"Get the fuck off me," he snarls. He has no idea that the words come out as an incoherent mumble.

"Ambulance is on its way," the uniform says. To him? Boyd isn't sure.

Crackling. A radio? A police radio? Shafts of light. Torches. Feet. Lots of feet.

Grace. She says, "Spence…"

Spence? Spencer is here? Why?

It's time he asserted himself. Time to sit up and start shouting. It doesn't go well. But thankfully, Boyd does not know that. The pain as he tries to move is so bad that he finally passes out altogether.

-oOo-

In the glaringly cold light of the ambulance Grace sees more than she wants to see. They simply cut the clothes off his torso – coat, jacket and shirt. There's blood and there's bruising, and where his skin isn't marked it's smooth, pale and vulnerable. She can see the curve of his broad ribcage, just as she can see the faded scars low on his flanks. Stabbed twice by a man irretrievably lost in a dark obsession – and Peter Boyd didn't deserve that, either. The younger of the two paramedics says to his colleague, "Possible haemothorax, left side."

Grace doesn't asks questions, doesn't attempt to interfere. She just sits, staring numbly at Boyd as the paramedics do what they can, and when they prepare for departure it is Spencer who tells them firmly that she will be accompanying them to the hospital. It occurs to her that perhaps she's in shock herself, but it's a very distant, dislocated thought. Her hands are shaking slightly, and when she looks down at them she's almost surprised to see the dried blood in the tiny creases on her knuckles and caked heavily around her fingernails. His blood.

She asks abruptly, "Is he going to be all right?"

The paramedic riding in the back of the ambulance gives her a quick, reassuring smile. "His blood pressure's lower than we'd like – hence the fluids – but the doctors will look after him, don't worry."

"He's a mess," she says distantly.

The paramedic nods. "Someone's given him a good going over. Don't you worry, when they pick up the bastard responsible, his feet won't touch the ground. Coppers don't like other coppers getting beaten up. God knows what a Super was doing getting himself in a situation like that."

"If you knew him," Grace says simply, "You'd understand."

"Believes in leading from the front, does he?"

"Something like that."

The paramedic looks back at her. "Might be worth having a word with him about that at some point, ma'am."

"Doctor," she corrects absently. "_Doctor_ Foley. Home Office psychologist."

The man's eyebrows raise, but he makes no comment, simply returns his attention to his patient.

-oOo-

"We need to ask DSI Boyd some questions," Spencer repeats, much later, and the tone of his voice makes it quite clear that he really isn't going to be easily fobbed off.

The doctor, young, exhausted and very junior, looks helplessly from one strained, anxious face to the next and says, "I'm sorry, but he's heavily sedated, Inspector. He's stable, but he needs to rest, and even if you attempted to question him, I doubt you'd be able to get anything coherent out of him."

Spencer is about to reply when Grace puts a restraining hand on his arm and shakes her head slightly. He frowns but remains silent. To the doctor, she says, "Can I see him? I'm a friend, not a police officer."

The man looks uncertain. "It's a bit irregular…"

Grace searches in her bag, locates her identity card and holds it up for inspection. "Doctor Foley. Home Office."

He capitulates reluctantly. "Well, all right. But he's barely conscious…"

"I understand that."

"Give me a moment," the doctor says.

The moment he's out of earshot, Grace looks at Spencer and Stella. "What do you need to know…?"

-oOo-

If Boyd were in a position to make such a judgement, he would almost certainly decide that he's as close to happily stoned out of his head as he's ever been. The pain has gone away, and the crushing pressure on his lungs has eased. He doesn't know he's on a morphine drip, or that he has a drain inserted in his chest. He doesn't know the cut above his eyebrow has been stitched, or that the doctors will decide the next morning whether he requires surgery on his fractured cheekbone and his smashed collarbone. No. All Boyd really knows is that he's warm and content, quietly drifting in some parallel reality where the hospital doctor gazing down at him looks an awful lot like Grace Foley.

Good-looking woman. No doubt about that. A touch too mature to be described as pretty, and not exactly a conventional beauty, but very nice-looking. Striking. Incredible eyes – true, piercing blue one moment, deceptively soft and subtle the next. Eyes that can be dangerously flinty, just as they can sparkle with humour.

Actually, it definitely _is_ Grace looking down at him. Which strikes Boyd as vaguely odd.

"Look at the state of you, Boyd," she says, and yes, it's her voice. No question.

He tries for a disarming grin, but his face doesn't seem to want to work properly. Should probably ask someone about that at some point. _Note __to __self__ – __face __appears __to __be __broken._

She says, "Mwhum mwarh?"

What the fuck is this gibberish?

_You drive me crazy, woman… Sorry. I should rephrase that. Or not. My apologies, but I'd really like to get you into bed…_

What? Where on earth did that come from?

She says, "What?"

_I __said__… __No, __wait. __I __didn__'__t __say __that, __did __I? __Fuck, __I __don__'__t __know._ "Grace…"

-oOo-

Completely stoned. That's her professional opinion. Both as a psychologist, and as a woman who was an undergraduate back in the 'sixties. It's not remotely funny. But of course, it is. Peter Boyd is, to put it delicately, completely and utterly treed. Grace has never seen his pupils so tiny, never seen him grin quite so much or quite so inanely. Shaking her head at him, she says, "It's a good thing you're not going to remember any of this tomorrow."

"…drive me mad."

"I know," Grace tells him. "Someone has to, Boyd. Besides, if you didn't have me to fight with you'd be bored."

His eyes start to close again, and she reaches out automatically, placing a hand on his arm, seeking to draw him back. "Boyd?"

He blinks slowly and looks at her, and she really doesn't know if he's taking anything in or not. Carefully, she says, "The man who attacked you. Was it Heath? Michael Heath?"

"Grace…"

As patiently as she can, Grace repeats, "Was it Heath? The man who beat you up?"

"Heath…?"

Not a helpful response. "Concentrate, Boyd. We need to know. Were you attacked by Heath?"

She can see the confusion on his face, wonders if he doesn't know the answer or simply doesn't understand the question. The expression is familiar – little boy lost. But not a roguish, deliberately deployed tactic this time. This time he really _is_ lost. The look in his eyes, wary, confused but strangely trusting, tugs at all her maternal instincts. In reality he's not that many years younger than she is, but sometimes it's far too tempting to treat him like an amiable but wayward child. Boyd is not a child. He's a mature, successful man in his fifties, a proven leader; a man who carries a lot of responsibility on his broad shoulders.

Grace stares down at him, something unexpected and unwelcome prickling under her skin. Good-looking? Unquestionably. Actually very handsome. That's hardly a new thought. She's always been obliquely aware of how attractive and charismatic he is, just as she's always been wryly conscious of the same awareness in younger, brighter female eyes. No, what's new is the very real sense that the knowledge is not at all abstract. It's a very mindful, very deliberate thought, and she has no idea where it has come from.

_For __heaven__'__s __sake, __this __is __Boyd,_ Grace tells herself sternly. _Your __friend __and __colleague? __The __bad-tempered __one __who __sits __in __the __office __opposite __yours __and __regularly __empties __his __in-tray __into __the __bin __because __in __some __ways __he__'__s __about __as __mature __as __a __thirteen-year-old __schoolboy. __The __one __who __can__'__t __get __through __a __staff __meeting __without __making __a __bad-taste __joke __and __who __always __sniggers __at __words __like__ '__fellatio__' __in __official crime __reports. __Pull __yourself __together__…_

"Peter," she says, trying a different approach. "Did you recognise the man who attacked you?"

-oOo-

Heath? Why is she asking him about Heath?

"Franklin," he mumbles. There's no sign of recognition in her expression. Boyd tries again. "Franklin…"

"Who attacked you, Boyd? Was it Heath?

_Dear __fucking __God__… __will __you __listen __to __me, __Grace? __What__'__s __wrong __with __you?_ "Was Franklin…"

Nothing seems to change. Her voice is soft, gentle. "Peter…"

Boyd doesn't understand… why _she_ doesn't understand. He's so tired and nothing's really making much sense, but the spike of angry frustration that wells up inside him is real. He wants to scream at her, wants to shout Franklin's name at her until she finally stops questioning him. Why isn't she listening? Why is she going on and on at him?

That's what she does.

_That's what she does, Peter…_

The rage boils inside him and just for a moment it is so violent and so savage that it actually frightens him. One last time he roars at her, "Franklin…"

-oOo-

Finally, she hears the word. Broken, half-mumbled, but just clear enough for her to be certain. Surprised and horrified, she says, "Franklin? Franklin did this to you?"

Boyd stares up at her, his pupils still constricted to tiny points from the opiate in his bloodstream; so tiny that Grace can barely see them against the dark irises. He looks… defeated. Lost. Utterly bewildered. The bruises are relentlessly darkening on his skin and the swelling on his face hasn't yet stopped increasing. He's no longer bleeding, internally or externally, but Grace is. She bleeds for him. And she begins to understand. The dawning comprehension is as terrifying as it is wonderful; it's a thing that can never be spoken, never be admitted. A frightening curse of a thing, but simultaneously an awesome, magical thing.

It could very well be love, this thing. She bleeds for him, this tough, cussed man, and she suspects she bleeds for him because he's starting to mean far more to her than is either wise or appropriate.

And if that's true, Grace instinctively knows it's something she must keep tightly shrouded in secrecy and silence.

-oOo-

"Well?" Spencer demands. Every bit as impatient as his superior. Worry and tension written hard across his strong features.

Grace closes the door quietly behind her, turns to face them both. "He's completely out of it, Spence. They've got him drugged up to the eyeballs. But he did finally give me a name."

"Heath," Spencer predicts grimly. "Fucking Geordie bastard."

Grace shakes her head. "Franklin."

It is Stella who says incredulously, "Franklin? Tom Franklin?"

"That's what Boyd said."

Spencer frowns. "You saw him – the guy he was chasing… Could it have been Franklin?"

"It could have been," Grace says. "It was dark, Spence, and he was a good distance away. To be honest, I couldn't swear it was either of them."

"Uniform have recovered Boyd's torch from by the lock-up," Spencer says a moment later. "Glass is shattered, and they think there's blood on it. It's been biked across to the lab. Felix is on the case."

"Heath's DNA is on the database, but Franklin's isn't," Stella adds.

Spencer's expression remains grim. "Doesn't matter. We'll arrest him on suspicion, get a swab done."

"Tonight?" Stella asks.

He nods. "Tonight. Let's go. Grace – you staying here?"

"Unless you need me," she confirms quietly.

Spencer simply shakes his head. "No. Call us if there's any change."

"I will," Grace assures him. Not many moments later she's alone in the hospital corridor.

-oOo-

At some point she falls into a doze, because the sudden sound of footsteps nearby makes her jump. Startled, Grace looks up at the nurse just leaving the side room occupied by Boyd. Quickly clearing her throat, she asks, "How is he?"

"Sleeping," the nurse says succinctly. "Are you a relative?"

Once again, Grace produces her identity card. "Home Office."

The nurse looks slightly disconcerted. "Oh, I see. Well, his condition is quite stable, Doctor… Foley. Unless there's any significant change, the doctors will reassess his condition in the morning."

Taking a gamble, Grace smiles hesitantly at the nurse. "I don't suppose I could sit in there with him…?"

The answer is a surprise. "There's no real reason why not – as long as you don't disturb him. We try to be flexible on an open ward like this one."

"Thank you," Grace says sincerely. Getting to her feet she realises just how much she has stiffened up over the last few hours. Her back hurts, her legs hurt. The legacy, she suppose, of her desperate search to find Boyd. Not to mention sitting in the corridor for what is beginning to seem like an eternity.

-oOo-

Boyd himself is largely oblivious. The morphine is continuing to do its job, and he sleeps and wakes and sleeps again hardly aware of any transition between states. Dreams, memories and reality merge into a dense haze, and he's not fully cognisant of anything. The woman sitting quietly in the corner of the room is no more or less real to him than anything or anyone else. He doesn't have the perception to know that he is sliding in and out of dreams – that sometimes she is real, and sometimes she is just in his head. None of it matters to him anyway; he has no particular sense of time, no real awareness of where he is or what has happened. The morphine is having the inevitable sedative effect on him. He doesn't care. All he really knows it that there's no pain, and that's good.

A concerned-sounding voice says, "Boyd? Are you all right?"

Grace? Grace. It's always Grace. Well, of course it is. She seems to like him. In her own individual way. Doesn't mean she's averse to speaking her mind. Not at all. She seems to be looking down at him again. Very odd.

"Peter…?"

Why the fuck does she keep calling him that?

-oOo-

Unexpectedly, he talks a lot. More accurately, he rambles. Most of it is fragmented, and a lot of it is simply indecipherable muttering, but Grace wonders what's going on in his head. He mentions people she's never heard of, places she's never realised he's been. Sometimes he grimaces, sometimes he even smiles for a moment or two. Bits of what he says make some sense, but for Grace it's a little like listening to one extremely disjointed half of a telephone conversation. She doesn't doubt that there's an entire discourse taking place behind the deep, dark eyes, one she's not privy to.

Without warning Boyd says very clearly, "Grace…"

Not sure if he is actually addressing her or not, Grace settles for a quiet, "I'm here. Go back to sleep."

She waits for him to do exactly that, or to react to the inner dialogue she can't hear, but instead he twists his head on the pillows and mumbles something incoherent. Torn between staying beside the bed and returning to her chair, Grace hesitates. Sleepy as he is, Boyd definitely seems to be getting more and more restless as the minutes tick slowly past. She debates pressing the call button to summon a nurse, but although hers is an untrained eye, she can see no tangible reason to do so. The drips both look fine; the drain in his chest looks fine. Instinct, experience and training all tell her that whatever's making him so restless is entirely in his head. He's been through a severe trauma, and perhaps the inevitable psychological repercussions are beginning to bite through the fog of morphine.

Rooted to the spot, Grace gazes at him. She wonders if he is afraid. Wonders if he was afraid while he was enduring the attack. She knows the answer to both questions must surely be an unqualified 'yes'. Yet, she can't remember a time when she's ever seen him openly display any fear. Caution, yes; fear, no. It isn't possible that he doesn't feel it – half Boyd's problems are caused by feeling things far too much rather than feeling them too little. Too much anger, too much passion. He has a true crusader's zeal when it comes to the pursuit of justice, a zeal motivated by experiences and emotions that go deep into the core of him.

Unbidden, a snatch of an all-too recent conversation comes into her mind.

Her own voice asking, _'__What __would __have __happened __if __he__'__d __fired __before __you__'__d __ducked?__'_

Boyd replying with quiet, nonchalant sincerity, _'__I__'__d __have __been __killed.__'_

Her answer, wry and grateful, _'__That__'__s __what __I __thought.__'_

She's sure he was afraid then. But not for himself. Unarmed, he'd faced down an unstable man with a loaded shotgun without a single qualm, with no regard at all for his personal safety. For her.

"Grace," he mutters again.

She still bleeds. For him.

-oOo-

Gentle as she is, he feels Grace touch him. Her hand is cool on his temple, her skin soft and delicate; he turns his head into the touch, unconsciously soliciting reassurance, compassion, tenderness. All the things he knows are in her, all the things he knows she will give without hesitation. Boyd is not aware of it, but in his drugged and injured state his defences are so far down that they might just as well not exist at all. He needs her and he doesn't even know it. Needs someone. Someone who will reach in past the boundaries of rank and propriety and quite simply care for him; care about him. He doesn't know just how vulnerable he is; not now, not ever.

Her voice is as gentle as her touch, but it holds a strongly rhetorical note. "What's the matter, eh? What's going on in that head of yours?"

Boyd opens his eyes wearily. It's a struggle, and not just because he's so incredibly tired. Her gaze locks with his and for a minute they simply stare at each other. He has no idea how to answer her. He's too tired, too confused, and there are too many things he simply can't find words for. Even if he wasn't in such a stupor from the morphine, how could he possibly begin to explain his own bitter culpability, his own part in everything that hurts him so much? How could he tell her – or anyone else – that however successful he may be in her career, he has failed desperately as a man; as a husband. As a father.

Mistakes. Far too many mistakes. Far too many wrong choices. Times when things could have been so different with the words he never said or the gestures he never made. Self-centred. Blind. Stupid. His wife lying in another man's arms because in the end betrayal came easier to her than constant loneliness. His son, bitter and rebellious, determined to kick angrily and defiantly against everything his selfish, absent father stood for.

The tears come, and they are so hot and so acidic that he thinks they are scalding the very flesh from the bones of his skull. And the worst thing – the very worst thing – is that he can see tears glistening in her eyes, too.

-oOo-

"It's the morphine," the nurse assures her quietly. "It causes euphoria in some patients, dysphoria in others. He'll feel better when the doctors reduce the dosage."

Boyd is asleep. He looks peaceful, untroubled by anything. Too tired to think straight, Grace asks, "What time is it?"

"Just past four. You should go home, Doctor. He's not going to remember if you were here or not, and there's nothing you can do for him. Get some sleep. Call mid-morning after the doctors have done their rounds."

"No," Grace says, and she wonders if he would be proud of her obstinacy. "I'll stay with him."

"It's just the morphine causing all this," the nurse says again. "Chemically-induced depression. Don't read too much into it. I've seen patients react in all sorts of ways. In fact – "

"Thank you," Grace says, cutting across the words.

The nurse looks at her with obvious curiosity, but says nothing. Eventually she simply nods and withdraws quietly from the room, leaving Grace to continue her long, difficult vigil. There seem to be too many hours in this dark, lonely night.

-oOo-

He doesn't believe for a moment that he deserves it, but Grace doesn't walk away from him. When he wakes, she's always there, sitting quietly next to him. When he sleeps, she's there, too, weaving gently in and out of his dreams, ever-present and soothing. He's a broken man, exhausted, abraded, choked with guilt, doubt and insecurity and she walks with him in the dreamland, just as she sits with him when his eyes are open.

"Why?" Boyd asks her. Real Grace or dream Grace? Boyd isn't sure.

"Because I love you," she says.

Dream Grace, then. Real Grace does not love him. But that's all right. He doesn't love her either.

_Liar._

He doesn't want her to love him. Doesn't want to have to live up to the quiet faith in her blue eyes.

He's a wild man. A loose cannon. How else can he survive now there's nothing else in his life? He is not a domesticated creature that sleeps cosily by her fireside. But perhaps he aspires to be.

He doesn't want the weight and the pressure of the invisible collar she's placed round his neck. But he does. He wants a place to belong, wants someone to belong to. He wants her to fill the empty space that rattles inside him.

"I hate you," Boyd says, and it's true; he hates her because he hates himself. And it's a lie because he would die for her in an instant purely because he loves her. Nothing makes sense to him anymore.

-oOo-

His words are very clear. "Fuck off and leave me alone."

She flinches. The dark eyes burn with something she simply doesn't understand. Her own words have become a tired, meaningless mantra. "Relax. Go back to sleep."

"I hate you," he mutters again, his tone as bleak as his expression.

Grace closes her eyes against the pain. In little more than a whisper she says, "Go to sleep, Boyd."

He does, but not for long. It has become the relentless pattern of the empty hours. He wakes and he cries until he is hollow again, and then he lies sleepy and acquiescent as she strokes his hair and tells him things he doesn't understand and won't remember. She cries only when he sleeps, and when morning light finally takes firm hold, both of them are raw and empty.

But it is Grace who will remember every single minute of every brutal hour.

-oOo-

A bright, cool voice says, "Mr Boyd?"

Boyd opens his eyes and immediately growls in pain and protest. His head hurts. In fact, everything hurts. He remembers… very little. The chill in the air, the man in the shadows. A smattering of strange, dreamlike moments that fade as soon as he tries to examine them. Unoriginally, he manages, "Where…? What…?"

"You're in hospital," the bright voice – which belongs to a tall, slim female doctor – tells him. "I'm Doctor Lamb. There's a Detective Inspector Jordan waiting to talk to you. Do you feel up to it, or shall I ask him to come back later…?"

It's Spencer who fills in the gaps for him. Spencer who tells him that Tom Franklin has been arrested and charged with the attempted murder of a police officer. And of course it is Spencer who tells him – reproachfully – that Grace has been at his bedside all night.

"I don't remember," Boyd admits. There are blurred traces of memory, but they escape every attempt at scrutiny.

"Not surprised," Spencer tells him. "She said you were completely stoned."

"Grace said that?"

Spencer grins. "Pretty much in those words, too."

Boyd is not sure he likes the knowing, amused look in Spencer's eyes. He makes a brief, half-hearted attempt to sit up, but the pain hits him like a sledgehammer and he's forced to grit his teeth and lie very still indeed until the worst of it passes.

"They've reduced the morphine," Spencer says helpfully. "Look on the bright side, sir. You won't have to dress up for the Ministerial visit."

"It's not 'til next month, Spence," Boyd mutters.

"Yeah? You think you're going anywhere in a hurry? Franklin kicked the living shit out of you, buddy."

"Tell me something… I don't know."

-oOo-

Still lying in bed, Grace asks, "How is he?"

Spencer's voice on the other end of the line says, "Boyd-like."

She has to smile slightly. "Grumpy and impatient?"

"Yup. They say he's going to sleep a lot for the next few days, but unless he deteriorates they'll probably discharge him at the beginning of next week. They pinned his collarbone this morning, but there's not a lot more they can do for him, apparently. It's just a question of letting nature take its course. The DAC wants him to go to Flint House to recover."

Grace winces involuntarily. "How did he take that?"

Spencer's chuckle sounds incredibly dry. "No-one's had the balls to tell him yet."

"Oh, no. Don't look at me," Grace says quickly. "That's strictly a police matter, Spence."

She thinks about it, though, as she wearily forces herself to take a shower and then starts to get dressed. Time in the Oxfordshire police rehabilitation centre would certainly prevent an all-too characteristic early return to work. She can just picture Boyd forcibly confined to such a place against his will, can quite imagine the detrimental effect on his temper. It's probably a good idea. He will hate it. He will complain and grumble and resist, but if he is ordered to go he will go. And make everyone's life hell in reprisal.

_Bad-tempered, __cantankerous __old __bugger,_ she thinks. But there's a ghost of a smile on her face.

-oOo-

So here they are again. He's sitting up now, propped on several pillows and although his face is still very swollen and virtually every inch of exposed flesh is spectacularly bruised, he looks a lot more like himself. The wary confusion has gone from his eyes, and when Grace walks across the room towards him, he smiles. It's a crooked smile, not helped at all by the split lip or the grossly swollen cheekbone, but somehow it's still every bit as sly and engaging as it usually is. He says, "Did you bring me grapes?"

This is a game Grace knows, one she is comfortable with and happy to play. "What, and risk pandering to your strange delusion that your colleagues give a damn?"

"Harsh, Grace. Very harsh."

"You look a bit better."

"I look like shit," Boyd says, mildly sardonic.

Grace nods. "You do, actually. I just wasn't going to be the one who said it."

"You don't look so great yourself, you know."

"Gallant of you. I spent the night looking after some idiot who can't stay out of trouble for five minutes, remember?"

"So I've been told."

Something about his tone makes her ask, "You really don't remember?"

"No. I'm told a certain psychologist's professional opinion was that I was completely stoned."

"You were. Which would have been a lot more entertaining if I hadn't been worried sick about you."

The dark eyes glint at her. "You were worried about me? Grace, I'm touched."

It's so easy, this banter. So easy and so familiar. For Boyd, there's a long road of recovery ahead, but there's no doubt in her mind that he will traverse it successfully. He always bounces back. Always.

At the back of her mind his voice whispers, _'__I __hate __you__…'_

This is the man who cried desolately in the empty hours, who called over and again for an adulterous wife and a lost son. The man who pushed her away repeatedly and then drew her back every single time.

'_I love you…'_

-oOo-

Something's changed. He can sense it quite plainly. There's something in her that's suddenly wary, that dances around him nervously as if it's genuinely afraid of him. Boyd doesn't understand it at all. The more he tries to remember the further away from him the distant flashes of memory get. He's not even looking into a fog, not anymore; he simply doesn't remember. Morphine amnesia, apparently. Something has happened in the course of the night. Something he suspects it may be better never to know about.

Grace looks as tired and drained as he feels. Genuinely solicitous, he says, "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"I slept all morning, Boyd."

"I think you should go home."

Her eyes flash a clear warning. "Trying to get rid of me?"

The slight sting in her tone makes him raise his eyebrows. Bad idea. It hurts. "Just attempting to show friendly concern, Grace. Why are you so defensive?"

"I'm not."

"You're doing the arm thing."

"You're an expert in body language now?"

Boyd sighs. Somehow he always seems to rub her up the wrong way. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"The only thing that's wrong with me, Boyd, is you."

"Christ, bite my bloody head off, why don't you? I'm just… concerned."

"Well don't be. I'm just damned tired, that's all."

Knowing it will wrong-foot her, he says disarmingly, "Thank you."

She gives him a look. "What?"

"I said thank you. For staying here last night."

Tartly, "You're welcome."

Something's changed. Something has very definitely changed.

_What did I say to you, Grace?_

Aloud, "Stoned, eh?"

"Out of your tiny mind, Boyd."

Ignoring the pain it causes, he offers a grin. "Should I ask where your expertise in the matter comes from?"

"As a police officer, most definitely not."

"I see."

"Tell me something," Grace says abruptly. "Who was Lucinda?"

_Ah ha. Was that it? Was I rambling? Oops._

He tries for an ingenuous smile. That hurts, too. "Just a girl when I was young and feckless."

"Bad lad."

He grins and relaxes. He thinks he's off the hook.

-oOo-

But he's not. Not even remotely.

Because Grace remembers every minute of every hour.

She's seen him; seen right into the heart of him. And she has seen the contradictions and turmoil that roar inside him, and she knows he will bite and claw and rear up against any attempt to hold him to any of the words he doesn't remember. The bruises will fade, but the words won't. Not for her.

The choice is hers. Go ahead and love the man without hope or expectation, or fight against it the way he fights and let herself be torn the way he is torn.

It's only now, as the light once again begins to leave the day, that Grace realises she was wrong in her assessment the night before. Deep inside, he's still bleeding.

Because that's what Peter Boyd does. He fights and he bleeds and he rages.

And God help her, she's falling in love with him.

– _the end –_


End file.
